Rammstein, 1995
Rammstein, 1995
Ken stood just inside the motor-pool, stamping his feet and bitching about the cold. American and West German mechanics were looking at the deuce and a half, deciding whether or not it could be repaired. Some of the West German soldiers laughed at Ken good-naturedly as he clamped his hands together.
“Cold, comrade?” one of them asked in English.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it, ‘rad?” Ken asked. The Germans howled with laughter in appreciation of the slang.
“Where are you from in the United States of America?” the same German asked.
“New Hampshire.”
The Germans spoke briefly to one another as large snowflakes appeared beyond the open garage door.
“Does it not get cold in New Hampshire?”
“It does,” Ken nodded, “just not this cold.”
The Germans laughed again. “You should ask Ernst about the cold,” the first German said.
“Who’s Ernst?” Ken asked.
The soldier gestured towards an old man sitting in a corner of the garage. He sat comfortably in a straight-back chair, a pipe in his mouth and a large stein of beer on the table in front of him. He wore a long gray beard and looked out the open bay door onto the base beyond.
“Ernst!” the first soldier called, following it up with something in German.
“Tell him to come here,” Ernst said in English.
“Come,” the first said, beckoning to Ken. Ken glanced at the deuce and a half, saw that it wouldn’t be ready anytime soon – if at all – and followed the soldier over to Ernst.
“Ernst,” the soldier said, “this is…”
“Ken. Ken Hall, sir,” Ken said, extending his hand.
Ernst grinned and shook it, his own huge hand. “A pleasure,” the old man said.
“Your English is excellent,” Ken said.
Ernst’s grin broadened into a smile. “The efforts of my mother.”
“Ernst used to drive for the S.S.,” the soldier said.
“Until they sent me to Russia,” Ernst said.
“That’s why you should ask him about the cold,” the soldier said, nodding.
Ernst shook his head. “Cyril, what is your fascination with the cold?”
“I just wanted you to tell him how cold it was,” Cyril said.
Ernst sighed. “There is a reason that they say that the Russian winter defeated Napoleon. Because it is true. The cold in Russia was terrible. You could watch men freeze to death. But it wasn’t the cold that defeated us, Herr Hall.”
“No?” Ken asked.
Ernst shook his head.
“The mud,” Ernst continued. “The mud and the snow. You couldn’t move in it. But that won’t happen again.”
“No?” Ken asked.
Both Cyril and Ernst shook their heads. “Look into the yard,” Ernst said, pointing with his pipe. “Do you see our trucks there?”
Ken looked out and saw a line of parked German troop trucks. “I see them.”
“What do you notice?” Ernst asked.
Ken stared at the trucks, examining the bodies, the cabs, the –
“Damn,” he said softly. The tires on the trucks were huge, tall. Seemingly unstoppable.
Ernst put his pipe back into his mouth and relit it.
“You see,” the old man said, settling back into his straight-back chair once more. “The next time we go in, we will not be getting stuck.”